


i was a border (and he crossed)

by penchant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Reverse Bang, M/M, just fyi the non-con is between eames and an omc, not eames and arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penchant/pseuds/penchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...and Eames had thought he had mostly figured Arthur out, but he would’ve never expected this from competent, no nonsense Arthur, this ability to calm him down, bring Eames back to himself. This ability to… understand." A character study of Eames. Arthur just gets in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was a border (and he crossed)

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon a wonderful, wonderful audiomix by lj user squishywitch for Inception Reverse Bang which can be found here: http://8tracks.com/anshin/i-was-a-border-and-he-crossed All section titles are pulled from the songs on the mix.
> 
> The title comes from the poem " _In what way does the room map out violence?_ " by Cathy Linh Che; her poetry is all incredible, and I highly recommend reading it. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, amsterdamned, and to all my other non-fandom friends who looked over various sections when this piece was majorly in progress. 
> 
> Warnings for repeated rape/non-con which is, within it, child abuse (not between Arthur and Eames, but Eames and an OMC), the f-slur, a panic attack triggered by PTSD, and a failed suicide attempt.

_1\.  you are young and life is long_

Eames is eight years old the first time it happens. His cousins Harley and Amanda are staying over at his house for Christmas break, and he’s been looking forward to their visit just as much as receiving Christmas presents, if not more.

Harley and Amanda are both older than him; Amanda is only three years older, but, even at eleven, she’s already a genius. She’s in all honors courses, and has won the spelling bee at her school three years in a row. Whenever she visits, she always helps him with his maths homework and plays board games with him, and doesn’t just let him win, even though most people do. Sometimes Amanda makes him laugh so hard his sides hurt.

He can’t help it, though -- his favorite cousin is Harley.

Harley is a cool and slick fifteen. He wears ripped jeans and talks the same way as the kids in Eames’s grade that everyone likes. Harley always spends a lot time when he’s at Eames’s house talking with his friends on the phone, and sometimes Eames will sit nearby and try to look like he’s not listening to Harley say the words his parents consider dirty.

Eames knows it mostly doesn’t work, though, because Harley always smirks at him after saying “shite” or “motherfucker.”

So when Harley hangs up the phone and says, “Eames, fucker, does your dad still have a record player? I wanna listen to some new vinyl I brought with me,” Eames just nods.

“It’s in his room. But you can’t use it unless he’s here,” Eames says, reciting one of the basic household rules. He think he’d probably mind the rule more if his dad weren’t so generous about letting him use it. As it is, he lets Eames listen to records pretty much anytime he wants; he’s even let him put them in himself, recently.

So Eames is surprised, a little, when Harley looks at him like he’s grown two heads, but in an adult way, a way that makes him remember just how much older Harley is. “Your dad isn’t home, is he?” he asks, and Eames knows the answer he’s looking for, so he shakes his head.

Harley smiles, but it’s not the same way Amanda smiles. It’s the way Eames has seen Will Close, the class bully, look at a girl right before he throws an uncapped marker at her face.

“Exactly. So, come help me figure it out.” Harley heads up the stairs without looking back, and Eames follows even though he knows he’s breaking the rules, but it doesn’t matter because Harley wants to listen to records with _him_ , and not anyone else.

By the time Eames gets up the stairs, Harley’s already begun to to place a record in the player. The record he’d taken out (Prince’s self-titled album, one of Eames’s favorites) is now on the floor. Eames hurries over and picks it up, placing it back in its sleeve. When he turns back, he notices that Harley is looking at him with an amused expression on his face.

“Come here,” he says, sitting down on the floor and motioning Eames over. Eames is halfway across the room before he registers that Harley’s record is already playing. It’s low and heavy, the kind of serious Eames hears in some of his parents’ conversations. He can’t decide if he likes it or not.

Harley pats the ground next to him once Eames gets closer, and so Eames sits down in the space Harley’s indicating.

Harley stands up suddenly, reaching to close the door. While he does so, he asks Eames if he likes the record so far. Eames nods, only a half lie, wanting to impress Harley.

It was the right thing to do, because Harley smiles as he sits back down.

“Can I show you something else, Eames?” he asks, still smiling.

Eames nods again, and Harley takes his hand, slowly guiding it toward his crotch.

“Aren’t those your private parts?” Eames asks, frightened, wondering, not moving his hand. It feels like something is solidifying underneath him.

Harley nods, then says, “That’s why we’re gonna keep this a secret between us, okay? What we’re doing -- it’s just for me and you, Eames, understand? Just something for the two of us.”

Eames nods, and Harley shakes his head. “No, Eames,” he says, guiding Eames’s hand toward his thigh. “You need to say it out loud. I need to know you understand that this is something special.”

“I understand,” Eames say, captivated by the way the muscles in Harley’s thighs feel underneath his palm.

“Good, Eames,” Harley says, positioning Eames’s hand once more over his crotch. “It’s gonna be so good.”

 _And the front line died_ , the singer croons, and Eames thinks, _Oh_. Eames thinks, _This is a song about war_.

Harley begins to unbutton his jeans.

(Eames always tries to imagine a different ending to that day, an ending that doesn’t include Harley’s hard cock under his tiny hands, his mouth open and vulnerable while Harley’s calloused fingers pull at his genitals, Eames’s confusion as to why Harley seemed to be enjoying something that was mostly painful. An ending that doesn’t include Eames blocking out all of the wrongness because he doesn’t want to lose the way Harley looked at him when he said this was something just for the two of them. Eames knows it’s useless, though. It happened, and he let it happen. You can’t un-let someone in.)

 

**5\. but image on image like beads on a rosary pull through my head**

The first job Eames works with Arthur is an unmitigated disaster.

Well, no. That’s the wrong way to put it. The job itself goes pretty well, actually. The research is easy; the maze, relatively simple, and, ultimately, the job itself goes off without a hitch. The information is extracted according to plan, and they’re in and out of the mark's mind within a half hour. But in Eames’s mind -- in Eames’s mind, the job is still a disaster.  

He and Arthur are alone in the warehouse when things go wrong. They’re doing a practice run -- it’s Arthur's first time working with a forger, and he’s skeptical at best about Eames’s ability to accurately portray the mark's daughter, which is crucial to the extraction. He’s skeptical at best about forgery as a whole, honestly, but it still feels like a personal insult to Eames, sometimes. This is far from his first job, and he knows Arthur knows it -- Eames has been in this business for almost three years now, and he has a reputation, okay. So they’re two levels down, as will be required in the job, with a minute on the timer outside.

Eames has the forgery down, has had it down for a week now, and he can tell Arthur is starting to become convinced that forgery isn't just a long con that Eames and the extractor are pulling over him, that it’s an actual thing, a thing that Eames can actually do it pretty fucking well.

He’s taking pleasure in it, almost, this process of impressing Arthur; uptight Arthur with his impeccable suits and his Glocks and his permanently neutral face. Arthur who looks ten years younger and acts ten years older than he actually is. He’s an enigma, Arthur is. Eames likes riling him up, surprising him, trying to get under his skin. He blushes the most delightful shade of red when he’s embarrassed or annoyed -- or both at the same time, if Eames has done an especially good job. On the whole, it’s made the job more tolerable for Eames. He thinks, that despite Arthur kind of being a prick a lot of the time, he’d like to work with him again. His precision and competence really are unmatched, and he’s only been in the business for a a year. Eames wonders how much more precise and competent he’ll be come next year.

Arthur is taking this time to ask questions to Eames as the mark’s daughter, to make sure Eames has done his research or something, which Eames tries not to be insulted by. He’s in the middle of telling himself for about the tenth time that Arthur is only doing this because it’s his job to be thorough, and not because he doubts Eames -- or, not solely because he doubts him -- when the music for the kick begins.

 _Us and them_ , booms over the landscape. _After all we’re only ordinary men_. And the thing is -- the thing is, Eames knows that this means the kick is moments away, he _knows_ that the music is only temporary and that once he wakes up it’ll be gone, but it only takes those two lines and he’s back to being eight and alone underneath Harley, Harley’s voice calling him over as Eames figured out that this was a song about war, not knowing that he was about to be --

and Eames shoots himself in the head. When he wakes up, his breaths are still shallow and frantic and he shoves himself out of the chair not even caring that he’s tearing the IV out of his wrist when he should be sterilizing it and taking it out gently but he doesn’t care, _he doesn’t care_ , he just needs to get out of here right now, right _fucking now_.

He hears Arthur’s voice vaguely, as if from a distance. “What the fuck, we were just about to --”

Eames can tell the exact moment when Arthur spots him, because suddenly Arthur’s voice takes on a different quality, more concerned, but all he can concentrate on is finding a way out and his heart is still beating so fast he feels nauseous and then Arthur’s voice is closer and he’s saying, “Eames, Eames, shh, just breathe for me, okay, just breathe.”

Eames’s thoughts are still going at one thousand miles an hour but Arthur’s voice is real and it anchors him enough that he finds it in himself to meet Arthur’s gaze. Eames thinks he must look like cornered prey.

Arthur’s eyes soften. So does his voice. “Eames, hey, just breathe. In through your nose, okay? In through your nose, then out through your mouth.”

Eames doesn’t say anything at first, but then sees that Arthur is looking at him, as if for confirmation, so he nods. He can still feel his pulse in every inch of his body, but he listens. He breathes, and Arthur breathes with him, and he feels his thoughts start to settle. His wrist hurts where he tugged the IV out. Eames’s heart is still beating furiously, but now that he’s centered on his surroundings and breath and _Arthur_ , he feels nothing but a stab of acute self-consciousness.

He looks away from Arthur, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Eames swallows, and swallows again. He can feel Arthur’s gaze resting on him.

“Sorry,” he says, and it feels like his voice is being dragged out from somewhere deep inside his body. “Sorry, that, uh. That wasn’t professional. I’m sorry.”

Arthur is quiet for a moment, considering. “I’m going to touch your wrist. Is that okay?” he asks, cautious, like Eames is a skittish animal he doesn’t want to scare away, and normally Eames would resent this, but he thinks he needs it right now, so he nods.

Arthur’s fingers ghost lightly around his wrist. “It’s okay,” Eames says, understanding somehow. “You don’t have to…”

Arthur’s grip tightens minutely as he wraps a bandage -- and of course he has a bandage on him, of _course_ \-- around Eames’s wrist. After he’s done, he keeps Eames’s wrist in a loose grip and gazes back at his face. “You don’t have to apologize for this, Eames,” he says, voice soft, and Eames had thought he had mostly figured Arthur out, but he would’ve never expected this from competent, no nonsense Arthur, this ability to calm him down, bring Eames back to himself. This ability to… understand.

“Then I’m sorry you had to see that,” Eames says, breaking his gaze with Arthur.

Arthur gives a soft laugh. It’s not a happy sound. “You think I don’t have them myself sometimes? I was in the army, too, you know.” Eames feels a sense of shame at how quickly the thought _I wish it was from the army_ runs through his head.

When he doesn’t respond, Arthur continues to speak. “Was it the music? I understand if you don’t want to tell me, but I want to know if it’s something I can change.”

Eames tries to give a self-deprecating smile. “Pink Floyd is… not safe around me, probably.”

“Alright, easy fix,” Arthur says, not questioning it, and Eames could hug him right now for not questioning it, he really could. “I can change that right now.”

“Thank you,” Eames say after a moment’s silence. “For… for this.”

And, oh -- Arthur _smiles_. This is the first time Eames has seen him smile in the entire month they’ve been working together. It’s a small smile, but it’s genuine, grateful, and just like that, Eames knows he’s fucked. He know this is another disaster he’s going to have to dig himself out of.

(Eames had thought, at first, that maybe he would come in the next day and Arthur would be changed somehow, that maybe it what happened would be obvious due to a change in the way Arthur acted. And something did change. Eames knows two people can’t share a moment like that without something shifting, but Arthur is just as sharp and impeccable and no nonsense as ever. He doesn’t look at Eames through a lens of fragility. He still skins his ideas alive sometimes. And the extraction is successful, and Arthur looks at him in the same way, and Eames could honestly cry with the relief of it all.)

 

_2\.  boys in stories repeat themselves in a fucked up mess_

It doesn’t stop.

It’s not that Eames had expected it to -- well, Eames hadn’t really known what to expect, but he had thought, maybe, that it would be a one time thing.

It isn’t.

Eames keeps letting it happen and he tells no one because Harley made him promise that it would just be their little secret, and Eames doesn’t want to disappoint Harley no matter how weird it is sometimes, so he keeps quiet, and he lets it happen.

It doesn’t take long until he’s old enough to figure it out; all it takes is a short lecture in health class one day, and Eames knows. When he gets home later that day, he thinks to himself, _I’ve had sex_. He expects it to feel different than it does. He expects it to feel exciting, to make him feel sophisticated, but it doesn’t at all. It felt big and disgusting and _wrong_ , and Eames doesn’t want that, but he doesn’t want to lose Harley, either. Harley’s seventeen now, and Eames knows that he can’t hold Harley’s attention for long.

But the next time they’re alone, Harley on top of him, both of them naked from the waist up, Eames can’t stop himself from asking about it. “Is this….” Eames starts, losing courage. He’s hoping that maybe Harley didn’t hear him, but no such luck. Harley pauses above him, eyebrows raised. His hands, which had been hovering over Eames’s nipples, move to the planes of Eames’s chest and settle.

“Is this what, Eames?” he asks.

Eames inhales, then asks, “Is this sex?”

Harley freezes, and then resumes his motion on Eames’s chest after a few seconds. “Of course not. Why are you asking?” His voices sounds like cotton candy, too sweet.

Eames gulps, suddenly aware of Harley’s position on top of him, straddling Eames’s thighs; he’s essentially trapped between Harley’s legs. _I don’t feel safe_ , he realizes with a start. He tries to sit up, but Harley’s hands find his shoulders and push him back down.

“Any reason why you’re asking?” Harley repeats, acting as though nothing happened.

“Never mind,” Eames tries to say. “Never mind, it’s okay -- ”

Harley twists one of Eames’s nipples in between his fingers, hard. Eames lets out a cry.

“Tell me why you’re asking, Eames,” Harley says, almost on a growl.

“It’s just… in -- in health class, we were discussing…   _it_ , and, and, they said that -- ” Eames can’t get it out, can’t say what he wants to. He can’t even remember why he started talking in the first place.

Harley seems to understand anyways. He moves up Eames’s body slowly, stopping when he’s sitting directly atop Eames’s dick. “Let me tell you a little secret, Eames,” he says, his voice like a serrated blade. “You feel that?” He grinds down, and Eames feels his cock stir, feels a whine forming in the back of his throat.

“I asked you a question, Eames,” Harley says when a few seconds pass and Eames doesn't answer, still grinding down into Eames’s lap.

“Yes,” Eames says, and he’s scared, so scared.

“That’s because you’re a faggot. You like this because you’re a fucking faggot. And all of those things they tell you in school? That’s only for normal people, not for fags like you. You understand, Eames?”

Eames nods, and notices with a surprise that his eyes feel wet.

Harley stops grinding down and smiles at Eames. It makes Eames feel even more unsafe than he did before. “Good, Eames. You see, I’m only doing this for you. Just our secret, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eames says, closing his eyes. He can’t bear to be looking at anything at all right now.

(There’s a picture from later that day, taken by Eames’s mom, right in front of the Christmas tree. The three cousins, Eames and Harley and Amanda, all smiling, Happy Christmas, happy to see each other. His mom loved the photo, put it up on their fridge where it stayed for almost a year. Eames thinks about that picture a lot, wonders how he fooled anyone at all. His smile is as fake as the plastic candy canes hanging from the tree. Harley is standing right next to him.)

 

**4\. how can i sleep if i don’t have dreams?**

The next job Eames works with Arthur is almost insultingly easy.

Arthur calls him to offer him the job, promises him that it’ll be easy and the payout will be good. Eames smirks, even though he knows Arthur can’t see, and says, “As easy as you, darling?”

He can _hear_ Arthur rolling his eyes. “Goodbye, Eames. I’ll pick you up at the airport when you arrive.”

The job itself is finished within two weeks, and Arthur was right -- it’s overwhelmingly easy, and a nice break. Arthur is only one on the entire team who even pretends to take the job very seriously; the rest of them spend most of the time joking around, something which Arthur indulges, though he never joins in.

After the job, their extractor, a nice Bulgarian woman named Inela, invites them all out for drinks at a local club. Eames almost expects Arthur to say no, but of course he doesn’t, and so all of them go to a local club that’s been recommended to Inela by a friend of a friend, or something like that.

They all get spectacularly drunk. Eames is probably the most sober of them all, which is pretty sad, actually, considering the amount of alcohol he’s consumed. Inela and their architect relocated to the dance floor, where they’re grinding against each other with a sort of abandon that one can only achieve from sharing an entire bottle of Skyy and then some.

This, of course, leaves Eames alone with Arthur in the booth the four of them had previously been occupying. Arthur smiles at him sloppily, and takes another sip from his beer. “You know,” he says, and his voice isn’t slurred at all. Eames is impressed. “I used to have the most ridiculous dreams.”

Eames attempts to raise an eyebrow in Arthur’s direction, and if Arthur’s laughter is any indication, he thinks he must’ve failed. “Really?” he asks, his own voice only slurring a tiny bit.

The thing is, Eames hadn’t expected Arthur to be able to loosen up so easily. But he does. He laughs and jokes with the rest of them, pokes fun in his own subtle way and ducks his head while smiling at his drink, waiting to see if someone will understand. He’s very physical, too, using his hands way more than is strictly necessary when he’s telling stories, hitting the table or leaning on the wall or Eames, who happens to be seated next to him.

Eames is kind of embarrassed that it took him this long to figure out that this was a side of Arthur that existed, that the straightforward and irritatingly serious Arthur only exists when he’s on a job. Arthur, he’s surprised to discover, is actually really easy to interact with. When there’s no job that needs to be done, he’s a completely open book. Eames never would’ve guessed it, except he’s seen it, and he kind of loves it.

Arthur nods solemnly. “I had this recurring dream as a kid that my mother turned into a kangaroo, right,” and there he goes with the wild gesticulation, his hands flying everywhere already, “and so I kept trying to hop and keep up with her, and I never could, so then she would drop me into a lake and I’d realize that the only reason I couldn’t hop as fast as her was because I was a fish, and I was actually _flopping_ , not hopping.” Arthur pauses here to take a breath, finally, and feels the need to demonstrate the difference between the two actions with his hands. Eames laughs harder than he has in ages at Arthur’s brows furrowing in concentration as he tries to get his hand to satisfactorily explain flopping.

He stops, suddenly, his expression turning more contemplative. “I miss having the ability to dream naturally,” he says, looking straight at Eames. “There’s nothing comparable to waking up after having a good dream.”

And Eames is just drunk enough to be honest, so he says, “Honestly, knowing that I wouldn’t dream naturally after a while was one of the reasons I chose to stick with dreamshare.”

“Why?” Arthur asks, turning to look directly at Eames. Eames clears his throat and smiles at Arthur, but even he can tell that it probably looks more like a grimace. “Well, darling, it would seem I was much more prone to nightmares than I was to good dreams, wouldn’t it,” Eames says, and leaves it at that. Arthur doesn’t need to know any more than that, not right now.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Arthur says, looking truly sympathetic. Eames can’t stand it.

“I’m going to get another round,” Eames says, sliding out of the booth and away from Arthur’s sympathy. “Do you want some?”

Arthur shakes his head vehemently. Some of his hair, the little pieces on the edges that have come loose from the gel, swings back and forth with the motion, and Eames can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, to each his own, I suppose,” Eames says, and walks back toward the bar. Inela and the architect, Eames can’t even remember his name at this point, seem to have disappeared, Eames notes with some satisfaction. _At least someone will be having a good time tonight_ , he thinks and avoids the weight of Arthur’s gaze on his back. It’s easier to pretend it’s nothing at all.

(Eames remembers the years the nightmares were the worst — when he would wake up in a cold sweat every morning, his breathing shallow, the sensation of dried tears on his face. At some points, the dreams were so bad that he would try and keep himself awake as long as he possibly could, relying on naps too short to allow him to enter the REM cycle. He remembers learning that dreamshare could get rid of your natural dreams, if you did it enough. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his entire goddamn life.)

 

_3\. without a warning sign_

Harley gets engaged when Eames is fifteen.

It shakes up the whole family rather nicely, to be honest, and Eames thinks that’s probably half the reason he did this, this getting married at twenty-two thing. Harley did always love the attention.

Eames wishes he could say it didn’t affect him at all, but when he sees the save-the-date hanging on their refrigerator, he promptly runs to the nearest bathroom and spends the next five minutes vomiting, until his throat feels raw and his guts feel tangled up. He stays there for longer than he should, lying his head against the lid and breathing, trying to calm his heart rate.

He hopes -- even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he _knows_ it won’t happen -- that maybe Harley getting married will be the end of it. He knows, though, that it won’t be. He thought the same exact thing when Harley started bringing his girlfriends to family events, but it didn’t stop. He always finds some reason, some way, to get Eames alone.

Eames tries his hardest to avoid Harley -- spends as much time as possible with Amanda, makes plans with his friends when he knows his cousins are visiting, offers to help his dad cook the night’s meal -- but no matter how hard he tries, he can never avoid it for long. Harley has leverage over him at this point; if Eames told anyone, he knows they wouldn’t believe him. Eames doesn’t think he could bare to see the look of concern in his mom’s eyes, concern that Eames is making up stories for attention and what that might mean.

And even if he told someone who _did_ believe him, it wouldn’t even matter, because then Harley would just say Eames enjoyed it, that Eames deserves it because he’s a faggot, and it’s not like Eames can offer proof that he doesn’t, that he _isn’t_ , not when his cock hardens every time Harley so much as lays a finger on him, despite the bile that rises in his throat. Harley could say he begged for it, and people would believe him. Eames isn’t stupid; he knows people will always believe Harley over him.

So he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, this means that no one knows. So when Harley invites Eames to his bachelor party on a night when he has nothing planned, none of Eames’s excuses satisfy his mom enough to get him out of the party.

“Eames, you love Harley,” she says. “Some of your other cousins will be there, too! And I’m sure if you feel awkward around his friends he’ll find a way to include you. He wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.”

Eames doesn’t think he’s ever truly hated his mom before this moment, but even so, he knows he can’t blame her; after all, she doesn’t know. He wishes, desperately, that there was a way she could figure it out without Eames telling her. He thinks maybe, if it happened that way, she’d believe it was really happening.

Eames tries faking sick the day of the party, but to no avail -- once his mother ascertains that his temperature is normal, she gives him some Pepto Bismol to take with him and tells him to have fun at the party. Eames can’t get rid of the pit in his stomach.

When Eames arrives at the bar, Harley greets him with an, “Hey, motherfucker!” He runs over and takes ahold of Eames’s arm, dragging him toward the rest of his friends and hindering Eames’s progress of removing his coat. Eames realizes with a start that Harley is already drunk as he begins leaning over Eames to talk, causing his alcohol-laden breath to hit Eames’s face with every word he says. The pit in Eames’s stomach grows.

Regardless, despite the tenseness building in his gut, everything is actually pretty okay. He spends most of the time talking to a few of his older cousins who have also made an appearance, but some of Harley’s friends seem significantly nicer than he is, and include Eames effortlessly, without making him feel like a burden. Eames almosts feels like maybe coming to Harley’s party isn’t going to be the disaster he thought it was going to be.

Of course, this all changes when he goes to the bathroom. It’s a single stall -- actually pretty nice for a club like this -- and Eames is washing his hands when he hears a knock on the door.

“Someone’s in here!” he calls.

“Eames, you fucker, open the door!” Harley says from the other side, and Eames freezes up. He stands there, the water still running over his hands. It’s only now that Eames realizes how effectively he’s isolated himself from everyone else. How could he have been so stupid?

“Eames…” Harley’s voice is taking on a sharper edge, even despite the slurring. Eames’s panic is beginning to settle in, and he needs to get out, but the only way out is toward Harley, so he can’t get out, _he can’t get out_ \--

“I swear to _fucking_ God, Eames, if you don’t open this door right the fuck now, you are going to regret it,” Harley says, his voice low and dangerous, and Eames starts dry heaving. The door handle begins to rattle, as if someone is violently pulling on it from the other side. Eames knows that’s exactly what’s happening.

“Don’t fucking test me, Eames.” Eames thinks that Harley’s voice is more like a growl than anything else at this point. Shaking, Eames unclicks the lock. It’s not two seconds before Harley is in the room with him, closing the door behind him and locking it once more. He backs Eames against a wall, pushing his shoulder into the tile. “What the fuck was that, Eames?”

Eames doesn’t answer, just shudders.

“Fucking _answer me_!” Harley’s yell reverberates through the small space.

“I --” Eames starts, only to be cut off by Harley’s laugh. The smell of alcohol on his breath is even heavier than it was before, and Eames feels fear coursing through him.

“Were you trying to avoid me, Eames?” Harley asks, his voice softer than it was only moments before. “Avoiding me during my bachelor party isn’t very polite, Eames. You might make me think you don’t like me.”

 _I don’t_ , Eames thinks, and says, “Harley, please.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for.

Harley pushes harder against Eames’s shoulders, and then laughs, a quiet, vicious thing.“Have you ever touched pussy, Eames?”

Eames doesn’t respond, feels heat flaming up his cheeks. “I asked you a question, Eames,” Harley growls out, and he fondles at Eames’s dick as he says it, pulling in a way that hurts. Eames doesn’t think he’s ever been more terrified in his life.

“No,” Eames says, which is the truth. He tried, once, with a sweet girl in his class named Karen. They had been making out after school one day, and she had guided his hands to her breasts. Eames tried to block out any other thoughts, but all he could think of was Harley telling him that he was a faggot, that he wasn’t normal, of the way his dick hardened under Harley’s touch even when he was disgusted. He stopped kissing Karen immediately and apologized. She never talked to him again. Eames doesn’t blame her.

"You're such a fag," Harley says, laughing. "I knew it since you were a kid. All you are is a fucking faggot."

Before Harley has a chance to respond beyond that, Eames says, “Harley, please. Please stop.”

“Stop?” Harley asks, releasing his grip on Eames just enough for Eames to notice, but not enough for it to make any real difference. “But that would ruin all the fun I have planned for us tonight.”

Harley strokes Eames’s cheek lightly, his fingers barely touching Eames’s skin. For some reason, this scares Eames more than anything else. It’s the precision, he thinks. That even despite Harley’s drunkenness, this touch is so precise.

“Please,” Eames says, softly, not because he wants to but because he doesn’t think he could speak any louder if he tried. It feels like his voice is caught in his throat.

“Eames…” Harley says, and turns Eames around, pushing his face into the wall, causing his cheek to rub against the tile. And Eames knew this was going to happen eventually, considered himself lucky that it hadn’t happened before now, honestly, but that doesn’t make it any more bearable.

“Harley, stop. Please stop,” Eames says, his voice uncontrollable, and Harley responds by grinding his erection into Eames’s arse. “Please stop, Harley, stop, stop, please stop, I don’t want this, please stop --”

Harley pulls Eames back by his hair, causing his neck to arch back. He’s looking straight into Harley’s eyes as Harley says, “No.” Harley releases his grip and Eames’s head snaps back to where it was before.

Eames feels Harley’s hand fondle at his crotch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have the energy to anymore. Slowly, Harley begins to unbutton Eames’s pants. Eames stays very still, and begins to cry.

(Eames doesn’t remember what happened -- he hasn’t tried to remember. He reckons his mind just couldn’t handle it anymore, and Eames doesn’t blame it. He wouldn’t want to remember, even if he could. But he can remember -- he can remember after. He can remember how sore his arse was for days afterwards, the way it hurt to walk up and down stairs. He can remember the bruises he found on his hips the next morning in the shower, and how touching one caused him to throw up right there, watching his vomit spiral down the drain. Most of all, though, he remembers watching Harley walk down the aisle three days later, remembers watching him promise to be a faithful and wonderful husband in front of almost two hundred people. Eames remembers knowing that this didn’t mean Harley was going to stop. Eames remembers thinking that Harley was never going to stop.)

 

**3\. a brand new start**

Arthur picks up on the third ring.

“Arthur,” he says, voice brisk, causing Eames to smile without really meaning to. Arthur is just so predictable sometimes.

“Yes, hello, Arthur, it’s been too long, I agree, we should definitely catch up,” Eames says, only to be cut off by a snort. Eames feels heat pool in his chest.

“You’re an asshole,” Arthur says, but it’s friendly, happy.

“Darling, don’t act like you’re such a joy to be around,” Eames points out, then cuts to the chase. “I got your e-mail.”

“Mm, did you?”

“I just said I did, you shithead.” Eames is smiling so widely it nearly hurts.

Arthur laughs, short and loud. “That you did,” he says. “So?”

“So I’m interested. The job you’re talking about seems like it could actually be fun, and, of course, how could I ever turn down two months of working with you?”

There’s a pause. “In case you were wondering why I didn’t respond right away,” Arthur says. “I needed to take the time to roll my eyes. Just so you know.”

Now Eames laughs, not holding back. “Now who’s the arsehole?”

“Still you,” Arthur says, and it’s so juvenile and yet so _Arthur_ , that Eames can’t help but laugh again.

Over the past few months, Eames has begun to realize that his relationship with Arthur might be more than just two colleagues who work well together -- that how he and Arthur act around each other is more in line with how friends act than co-workers. Eames can’t pinpoint the moment when this maybe-friendship started, but he can pinpoint the moment he realized; Arthur had called him for an opinion regarding an architect that Eames had worked with, and they ended up talking for almost two hours. Arthur was talking his ear off about animated documentaries, and has Eames watched _Waltz With Bashir_ , because then he would understand, and Eames remembers thinking, _We’re… we’re friends. Arthur and I are friends_.

“So,” Eames says, still smiling. “Will I get to meet the elusive Cobbs this job?”

“Yes, actually,” Arthur says. “But now you’ve ruined my surprise.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so predictable, love,” Eames chides, and then asks Arthur how his last job, a difficult extraction from the son of an Eritrean leader, had gone. They talk for a little while longer before Arthur needs to get off his phone -- it seems even Arthurs are subject to airplanes’ cruel anti-cellular stance.

Arthur had been talking up Dom and Mal Cobb, a new extractor-architect team that have just entered into the world of dreamshare, for a few months now, but Eames has not yet met the duo. It’s clear Arthur respects them immensely, though -- over the past year or so, Eames has gotten better at reading Arthur, and it’s obvious, even if he’s never said so outright.

He tries not to be jealous. It fails, mostly.

Despite that, Eames really is excited to meet the Cobbs. Arthur has good taste, if nothing else, which means that both Dom and Mal will both probably be competent at the very least. It’s always a nice change to work with people who know what they’re doing.

He arrives late on the first day of the job, which is mostly a strategic move but also a little bit the result of his sleeping in. When he gets to the warehouse they’re using as a base, he sees the Cobbs and Arthur all talking over a table that’s covered with various documents. Mal’s hand is resting on the small of Arthur’s back, and Arthur is _smiling_.

Even now that he and Arthur are friends, that he knows he makes Arthur smile a lot, besides their first job together after Eames’s panic attack, he has never seen Arthur give a real, genuine smile while on the job. Eames tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt how easily Arthur’s smiling. It doesn’t work all too well, but he’s a forger, an actor. He can fool even the best under certain circumstances. This is just another set of circumstances.

“Rather rude of you to start work without me, darling, wouldn’t you say?” Eames says, a few feet away from the table.

All three of them turn their heads to look at Eames. It’s almost comical, really. The smile fades slowly from Arthur’s face, but his eyes are still sparkling. 

“Dom, Mal,” he says, standing up straighter. “This is Eames, the forger I was telling you about.”

The woman -- Mal, he presumes -- glides over toward him to give him a hug. Eames is startled enough by the gesture that he almost doesn’t respond. She pulls back, smiling. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says. Her voice is lilting, soft, high pitched. She has a soft French accent. Eames is more than a little bit enamored.  “Arthur’s told us so much about you.” Eames smiles back and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Ah, only good things, I hope,” he says, and she laughs loudly. It’s so unashamed and candid. Eames loves it.

Eames himself almost laughs at how quickly Dom takes his wife’s hand in his own when he steps forward to introduce himself. “I’m Dom, Mal’s husband,” he says, brow furrowed, and Eames does laugh, then.

“What?” Dom says, his posture tense.

“You have nothing to worry about regarding your lovely wife,” Eames says, smiling. “Besides, if I were at all inclined toward the fairer sex, she would already be swooning in my arms.”

Mal hits him lightly on the arm, but her eyes are glinting. She’s looking mostly at Dom, who is scowling only a little bit, but it softens when he sees her looking at him. Eames has to force himself to look away from the Cobbs.  He’s never been around two people that are so unabashedly in love. It’s lovely, yes, but it hurts him somewhere in his gut.

It doesn’t take long after they start working in earnest for Eames to figure out why Arthur is so taken with the Cobbs. They work efficiently but thoroughly, and the manner in which they bounce ideas off of each other in a mad frenzy, one better and more creative than the next, is objectively captivating. Eames isn’t surprised to find that he’s keen on the couple himself.

The job is on an old socialite, a stuffy, patronizing man named Jonathan Miller. His wife, Rosa, suspects that he’s keeping something from her due to recent strange behavior -- he’s not home as often, deleted text messages, the like -- and hired the Cobbs to figure out what, if anything, he is hiding from her.

“The only person Miller seems to trust is his granddaughter, Stacey,” Eames says one day, after looking over all the reports Arthur has pulled together. “My best bet would probably be to tail Stacey for a few days and then see if I have enough information to forge her.”

“I thought we said that you would be forging Rosa,” Dom says, shoulders hunched slightly.

“We did,” Eames says. “But something about it… I think Stacey has some information about what’s going on, and forging her could help us get to the middle of it. I don’t know how I know this, but I know.”

Dom looks like he’s going to argue, but Arthur cuts him off. “So you forge Stacey, then,” he says, agreeably.

Dom gives Arthur a look, but Arthur shrugs it off. “I trust Eames’s instincts,” he says. “He’s not the best forger in the business for no reason.”

Eames winks at Arthur, causing Arthur to smirk in his direction. Cobb rubs his fingers against his temples.

That is, unfortunately, the last good thing that comes from this job. When they finally enter Miller’s mind, with Eames as Stacey, it becomes immediately clear what secret he’s been hiding from his wife. Miller grabs on to Stacey with a kind of ferocity Eames never would’ve imagined the old man capable of, and proceeds to mash his lips against hers.

“I missed you so much,” he says, pressing kisses around her jaw, on her neck, and Eames feels frozen to the spot. _No_ , he thinks, trying to concentrate on not letting the forge slip. _Not this_.

It only continues for a few seconds longer before Miller pushes Eames-as-Stacey up against the wall of his house, and Eames cries out. Nothing happens. Dom, Arthur, and Mal are on the third floor, unlocking the safe they put into Miller’s bedroom. _You don’t need to be up there_ , he wants to scream. _The secret is right here_.

“Stop, Grandpa, please,” Eames says, distressed. He can feel the forge slipping. It’s too much like Harley, there’s too much of him in this scenario. He doesn’t know how to distinguish from himself and Stacey. Both of them are terrified.

Miller smiles and lifts his head up from Stacey’s chest, which he had been kissing with fervor while holding Stacey’s hips against the wall. He shudders. “You always say that, Stace,” he says, and his eyes slide shut. He’s smiling. “You always say that, but you’re always so, so wet for me.”

Eames feels like he’s about to vomit. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Grandpa, stop,” he says, with a little more force. “I don’t want this!”

Miller’s eyes go stony within seconds. “Of course you want it, you fucking slut! You’ll take anything I give you!”

Eames is about to cry. He’s about to cry and his forge is about to slip when Arthur runs in and shoots Miller in the head. Eames releases the forge and collapses on the ground.

“Eames!” Arthur says, running toward him, and he looks frantic, so frantic. “Eames, fuck, we were too late, I’m sorry. I came as soon as --”

“Won’t Miller be awake now? Shouldn’t we be following suit?” Eames asks. He feels completely drained.

“I sent Dom and Mal back early, they’re going to give him some extra sedative,” Arthur says dismissively, as if it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t. “I’m so sorry, Eames. As soon as we opened the safe and figured out what was going on, I ran downstairs to try and stop it but --”

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Eames says, and he’s so tired. All he wants to do is go to sleep. “We finished the job. We found out what Rosa wanted us to. Can you please shoot me out?”

“Eames --” Arthur starts, but Eames really, really can’t have this discussion right now.

“Shoot me out, Arthur,” Eames says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Arthur looks straight at him, and Eames is startled to find that Arthur actually looks shaken up. Arthur never looks shaken up.

Arthur purses his lips, doesn’t argue, and shoots Eames in the head.

**

Later that night, Arthur finds Eames at the hotel bar where he is, quite predictably, trying to drink himself into a stupor.

“Eames,” Arthur says, tone neutral. Eames looks up and indicates the seat next to him, and Arthur sits down.

“Eames, I’m so sorry about --” Arthur starts, tapping his fingers against the surface of the bar.

Eames cuts him off. “You know why it was so scary, Arthur?” Eames says, trailing his finger over the rim of his glass. He pauses for a while, but Arthur seems to understand that he shouldn’t be trying to say anything. “It wasn’t the first time.”

Arthur looks at Eames, his expression intense. He doesn’t say anything, but Eames knows he’s listening.

“His name was Harley,” Eames finally says, and the name still feels like lead on his tongue, even after all this time. “He was my cousin and I looked up to him and he -- he ruined my life.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds stricken, sad. “Eames, I’m sorry.”

Eames's face heats up. “I don’t need your pity.”

“This isn’t -- this isn’t _pity_ , you asshole,” Arthur says, tone fierce. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. And that’s not -- it isn’t because I pity you; God, Eames, how could I ever pity you? I’m just -- I’m sorry you had to go through that, and I’m sorry you had to revisit it today. That’s all. I’m just sorry.”

Something comes to rest in Eames’s  gut. He tugs one side of his mouth up into a half-smile and says, “Well, thanks, then.” It feels odd to be saying that, especially to Arthur. He never would’ve guessed that it would be Arthur of all people who would understand what he needed to hear, not when he first met him.

Arthur signals the bartender for a drink. “What do you say we get totally, spectacularly plastered?” he says, giving Eames a tentative smile.

“That,” Eames says, “is the best idea of yours I’ve heard in a long time.”

(Eames doesn’t remember much of that night at all, but even when he wakes up hungover beyond belief, he feels… happy. He feels sick, and like he’s going to die by migraine, but he can’t stop smiling. And the thing is, Eames had resigned himself to being struck by Arthur long before they ever became friends, but he had never expected that it would stay this long, that it would grow and settle somewhere in his chest, permanent. He thinks that maybe he should be scared, but he can’t stop smiling long enough to care.)

 

_4\. a dark shape on a golden floor_

The main thing that keeps Eames going after Harley’s bachelor party is his theatre. He only got involved at first because he was well into his freshman year and still lacking the arts credit he needs to graduate. The idea of him singing or dancing is terrifying, and the illustration class he tried to get into filled up to the point that there wasn’t even a point of putting himself on a waitlist. So, theatre class it was.

Imagine his surprise, then, when a month into school, he finds that theatre is the only class he really looks forward to at all anymore; Eames thinks that he may have dropped out of school before his sophomore year if not for the theatre program. Eames isn’t a dumb person -- in fact, he’s quite clever -- but he hates the grueling monotony of school, hates homework and maths class, hates how some of his teachers treat him like an idiot just because he has dyslexia. Theatre class is really the only redeeming factor.

He auditions on a whim for this year’s fall play, more for practice than anything else, so when he sees the cast list for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, sees his name next to the role of Gooper, he almost doesn’t process it beyond thinking that he probably stole the role from an upperclassman who deserves it more, that he probably only got it out of pity.

When Eames goes to his theatre teacher, a kind woman in her mid-thirties who insists her students call her Annie, and tells her that she should give the role to an upperclassman, she gives him a small frown. “Eames,” she says. “I cast you as Gooper because you deserve the role. Hell, Eames, if you were just a little older, I may have cast you as Brick. You’re an incredibly talented actor. It’s a shame you’re only getting into theatre now.”

Eames is shocked into silence for a second before he says, “Oh. Uh, I’ll see you in rehearsal then?”

Annie smiles. “I sure hope so.”

Eames works his arse off on the fall play, spending more time at the school’s theatre than he does at home. He marks up his script with notes about blocking and character motivations, about his character’s relationships with the other characters in the play.

It all pays off. He has a fantastic time performing, and when the spring play comes along, no one is surprised except Eames himself when gets the lead role. It’s the happiest day of his life.

He somehow dedicates even more time to the spring play than he gave to the fall play; every free moment is spent memorizing lines or working on monologues with Annie. Rehearsals are every day after school, and Eames often visits the theatre during lunch to practice as well. The theatre becomes a sort of safe haven for him, and he is so thankful that he’s found this place.

Eames doesn’t think he’s ever been as nervous as he is on opening night. Annie spots him pacing in the backstage right wing and calls him over toward her.

“Eames,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. I know you’ll be fine. Just take some deep breaths and start easing into character. You’re going to be brilliant.”

Annie gives him a hug and calls places as she walks away. Eames takes a few deep breaths and settles into his character and starts to feel calmer.

It goes spectacularly well. Eames feels alive in a way he hasn’t in ages, and he knows this is it for him. When he bows and hears the tiny crowd stuffed into his shitty school auditorium, he knows with an unwavering certainty that he wants to act for the rest of his life.

He rushes out into the lobby as soon as he’s allowed to in order to greet his parents, not even bothering to change out of his costume first. He sees his parents before they see him, but not by much; his mom must catch sight of him out of the corner of her eye or something, because he watches her excitedly nudge his dad and they both turn toward him, smiling proudly. His mom is holding a bouquet of roses which she holds above his head as he’s pulled into a hug.

“You were amazing, Eames,” his dad says when they pull back. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping all that talent under wraps until now. Should we feel betrayed?”

Eames laughs, and his dad ruffles his hair. Eames is smiling so widely his cheeks are beginning to hurt.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and before he can look to see who it is, a voice right next to his ear says, “Nice job, kiddo.” Eames stiffens, feeling his smile freeze. He turns around and finds himself face to face with Harley, who is smirking at him and holding hands with his wife. It’s the first time Eames has seen Harley since his wedding, and, unbidden, he has flashes of being trapped in the bathroom, scared and alone. Just like that, all of Eames’s happiness is gone, replaced by a tight, furled panic in his gut.

Harley’s wife, whose name Eames can’t remember, smiles at him. “You were fantastic, Eames. Harley never told me he had such a talented cousin.”

“I didn’t know myself,” Harley says, staring straight at Eames. He’s smiling, but it’s not a happy expression. Eames feels pinned in place by Harley’s gaze, and he needs to leave now, otherwise he’s going to lose it in front of his parents and his friends and that can’t happen, _it can’t_.

Eames forces a smile and hands the flowers back to his mom. “I need to change out of my costume,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

When he gets backstage, there are only a few people left milling around. Most of the people he passes congratulate him on a good show, but it feels stale. Eames realizes that his pace is probably a little faster than what would generally be acceptable, his breaths coming a little faster than is normal, but he doesn’t think he could slow down either if he tried.

He yanks open the door to the boy’s dressing room and pulls it closed with a slam, his breaths coming in gasps. Eames feels like he’s about to throw up.

He begins to take off his costume with shaking fingers, carefully hanging it back up and trying to even out his breathing. He’s just put on his t-shirt when he hears the door to the dressing room open. He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Harley.

His suspicion is confirmed when he feels a hand connect sharply with his arse. He cries out, only to be pulled back against Harley, one of Harley’s hands covering his mouth, the other pulling his arse against Harley’s dick. Eames tries to wiggle out of Harley’s grip -- he knows the area better than Harley, and if he managed to get out of Harley’s grip he could almost certainly lose him backstage. Harley’s grip is strong, though, strong enough that Eames thinks he may have a bruise on his hip tomorrow. He tries to make a noise loud enough for one of the remaining cast members to hear. Harley growls in Eames’s ear and shoves his hand into Eames’s mouth, gagging him.

“Shhhh,” Harley says, his tone mocking as Eames drools all over his hand. “We’re backstage. You need to be quiet.”

Eames pinches his eyes closed, and goes loose in Harley’s grip.

When Harley’s done, he shoves Eames against the wall of the dressing room, laughing. “You’re such a faggot,” he says. “Fucking theatre. Even I never would’ve guessed that you’d be so predictable.”

Harley walks out and closes the door behind him. “I’ll tell your parents you’re having some costume difficulties,” he says through the door, and Eames collapses on the floor and starts to cry. All of the energy has been sucked out of him. It feels like hours before he finally manages to push himself off the ground. His hands are shaking so badly that he can’t even zip up his jeans but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

He climbs up the ladder to the catwalk almost without realizing what he’s doing. Before he knows it, he’s standing over the stage, looking down at the set he knows like the back of his hand, that he was walking through less than an hour ago. It already feels so distant.

He lies down on the beam and thinks about falling off, thinks about what it would be like. It would be simple, really -- just a roll over the edge, that’s all. Just a little bit more energy, and it would all be over. Harley would never be able to touch him again.

He thinks for a second more, and then pushes his body over the edge.

The sound he makes upon impact his thundering even to his own ears. He hears a cry from somewhere nearby, and his body aches all over. He hopes that this part ends soon. He just wants it all to end.

He thinks he hears someone calling his name. He wonders if he’s being welcomed into the afterlife, and lets himself slip away.

**

The first thing he feels when he wakes up is a deep ache, something that seems to have settled in his bones. He has a moment when he wonders if he’s dead, but he hears beeping by his side, and he can feel a hospital bed beneath him. He cries out. All he had wanted was for it to end.

Eames hears the door to his room open and close. “Hello, honey,” a soothing, deep voice says. “You’ve been asleep for quite a while. It’s good to have you back.”

Eames doesn’t respond, but he does open his eyes. A middle aged woman in scrubs is standing at the foot of his bed, a soft expression on her face. The pain throughout his body is becoming more pronounced, but he ignores it.

“Your parents have been waiting quite a while to see you. Is it okay if I get them from the waiting room?” she asks.

Eames is silent for a moment, but then says, “I want to go back to sleep.”

She nods and says okay. “Just for a little while longer,” she tells him. “You have to see your parents soon.”

Eames ignores her and closes his eyes. Being alive is already proving to be the worse option.

**

The second time Eames wakes up, he hears someone crying by his bed. The ache in his body has become deep seated and immobilizing, but he nonetheless opens his eyes and attempts to sit up.

“Mom?” he rasps out, surprised at the sound of his own voice.

“Oh,” she says, her head snapping up. She shakes the sleeping form next to her and says, “Danny, Danny, he’s awake!” trying to wipe away her tears.

Eames’s dad grunts into awareness and then says, “Gave us quite the scare there, Eames. We thought we’d lost you.” His expression hurts something deep inside of Eames. He feels a pang of guilt looking at his parents, at how much of a mess they are.

Eames stays quiet, and so do his parents, aside from crying. Eames is pretty sure the only reason they haven’t tried to hug him is because he’s covered in plaster and tubes.

“Eames,” his mom says, finally, her voice tenuous. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” She sounds afraid. Eames has never heard his mom sound afraid before.

“No,” he says, looking in the opposite direction. “It wasn’t.”

“Was it -- was it because of. Because of Harley?” his mom asks, and Eames turns his head around and says, “How--”

His mom cuts him off. “When they brought you in, there were signs that you had been… that you’d been…” her sentence trails off into a sob, but Eames knows what she was going to say.

“They did a SART exam,” his dad says, voice gruff. “And the only person who had been with you in the time they projected it happened…”

Eames doesn’t say anything, just lies back down and looks at the ceiling.

“Eames,” his mom says, and her voice sounds stricken, sad. “Why didn’t you… why didn’t you tell us? We would’ve done anything to protect you.”

For the first time since Eames has woken up, he feels sure of his answer. “I was scared,” he says, looking up at the white ceiling, and it feels like the biggest truth he’s ever told.

(Eames stays in the hospital for a month and a half. He’s told he’s lucky -- he could’ve paralyzed himself, could’ve broken some of his bones beyond repair. As it is, he broke or fractured a majority of his ribs, almost punctured his right lung, broke his right leg in six places, and has a serious concussion. He’s going to have to use a wheelchair for the next six months. The only reason he survived at all is because he fell onto the second level of the set, which was seven feet off the ground. If he had rolled off the other side of the catwalk, where the set was lower, there’s no way he would’ve survived. He has some days of regretting that more than others.

His parents, in the end, don’t press charges against Harley, even with the SART. They tell Eames it’s because they don’t want him to relive the experiences by having to testify, and he believes them, but thinks there’s probably some familial drama going on, too. He doesn’t blame them, though, just focuses on getting better. So it goes: nothing happens to Harley. Everything happens to Eames.)

 

**2\. consolation day**

When Eames wakes up from his test run, he’s surprised to note that Arthur is the only other person left in the warehouse. He’s sitting almost completely across the room from Eames, his back hunched over a desk littered with papers, twirling a pen absentmindedly in his hand. Eames sits up slowly, sliding the IV carefully out of his wrist and turning off the PASIV.

“Dom and Mal got an emergency call from Philippa’s babysitter,” Arthur says, not turning to face Eames. His full attention is still focused on the papers in front of him. Eames watches the way his arm moves as he underlines something. “You can leave, if you’d like.”

“Alright,” Eames says. He begins to pack up, then pauses, eyes flitting back to Arthur. He’s stretching, now, standing up stick straight with his arms above his head. His eyes, however, are still fixed downward. Eames notes this all with a kind of fondness he would never admit to.

“Eames,” Arthur says, shocking Eames out of his gaze.

“Mmm?” Eames tries to keep his mouth from quirking up in a smile. He’s failing, mostly.

Arthur looks over his shoulder. He’s smirking. “Stop ogling my ass.”

Eames laughs. “You wish,” Eames says, not sure if he’s talking about stopping or looking in the first place. It’s hard to tell, sometimes. He picks up his jacket from the back of his chair and swings it over his shoulder -- it’s not as cold now as it was this morning.

“See you tomorrow, darling,” Eames says, laughing when Arthur pauses in his reading to flip Eames off.

Eames is a block and a half away from his hotel when he realizes what an idiot he is, and turns around. It’s a hard job, this one, and it’s been taking a toll on all of them (Eames wouldn’t be surprised, honestly, if Dom and Mal had made up this “emergency phone call” as an excuse to leave early), but it’s been especially hard on Arthur. The CEO of leading technology company has hired them to extract his competitor’s latest design before it is unveiled to the public in order to get ahead in the market. Which would all be pretty typical -- basic, even -- if not for the high level sub-security their mark has, and the harsh time limit their client has given them.

Eames knows Arthur -- leaving him alone is a recipe for him pulling an all nighter, poring over every detail six or seven times and triple checking everything he’s already double checked; or, as Eames likes to think of it, Arthur slowly driving himself mad.

He stops on his way back to the warehouse and picks up some beer for the both of them, feeling rather pleased with himself, honestly. The feeling stops short when he enters the warehouse.

Three bodies, presumably dead, are lying on the floor of the warehouse. One of them is still bleeding. All three seem to have been killed with one shot each, straight to the head. The accuracy is incredible -- Eames can’t help but admire it. Even his shot isn’t that good.

Possibly more terrifying than any of that, though, is the distinct lack of Arthur. His desk is still littered with papers, and Eames _knows_ Arthur would never leave without putting all his papers back unless absolutely necessary.

“Arthur?” Eames calls out, voice shaking. He knows that none of the three men are Arthur, that that supports the theory that Arthur killed them all in his trademark efficient manner and is somewhere safe, probably getting Dom and Mal. But he can’t help it -- he’s worried. “Arthur?”

Eames feels a knife at his throat and a weight against his back before he can say anything else. “Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, his voice stiff and formal, directly in Eames’s ear. Eames nearly sags with relief.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, just presses the knife closer against Eames’s throat. Eames freezes. “You cleared out just in time,” Arthur finally says. “Another minute and you would’ve been here, too. Seems a little too perfect, Eames, wouldn’t you say?”

Eames isn’t normally afraid of Arthur. That’s not to say that he doesn’t recognize that Arthur is a terrifying man; Eames has seen him kill eight men in under a minute, has seen the efficiency with which he can make someone bleed, has seen the violent glint in his eyes when he’s fighting off projections in a dream gone wrong. But for the most part, none of that is ever directed at Eames, so he never has a reason to feel afraid.

Right now, though, Eames is pretty much scared shitless. Arthur is sharp and violent and relentless and Eames loves it more than he would care to admit, but he loves it a lot more when it doesn’t involve a knife at his throat.

“Arthur,” Eames says urgently. “Arthur, if you think _I_ think I could hire someone who could successfully kill you, then you’ve got another one coming. I was going to go back to the hotel, honest, but leaving you alone when you’re stressed out is never a good idea so I decided to turn back and I just stopped to get some beer on the way back --”

It takes a second to register that the knife is no longer a pressure against his jugular, and only a second more to realize that Arthur is snickering behind him.

“Arsehole,” Eames says, turning around and pushing Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says as he regains his balance. He looks at least a little remorseful as he sheaths his knife. “I was pretty sure it wasn’t you, but I needed to make sure. And then you wouldn’t stop talking long enough for me to let you know I believed you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a bloody menace with a knife,” Eames mutters, but he’s already forgiven Arthur. He knows it, and he knows Arthur knows it, too, by the smile that’s spreading across his face.

“Stop complaining and give me the beer, Eames,” Arthur says, and Eames obliges, but only after making it clear how much he would rather not. Arthur’s not fooled.

“What are you going to do with the bodies?” Eames asks, popping open his bottle and watching Arthur do the same. Arthur shrugs.

“Dom’s generally pretty good at taking care of this kind of shit. I let him know what happened, and he said he’d take care of it. So nothing for now,” Arthur says, casually, as if he works in a room with the bodies of three men he just killed every day. Which, you know, he might.

“Do you have any idea --” Eames starts, only to be cut off by Arthur.

“No.” Arthur’s voice sounds irritated. “It makes sense that it would be our mark, but I’m sure he has no idea we’re here. They clearly wanted to kill me, not the whole team, so probably someone with a vendetta. That leaves a few people as suspects, but it can wait until after the job if they’re going to hire _amateurs_ to try and take me out.”

Eames can’t help but laugh at Arthur’s disdain. He almost sounds insulted. “Regardless of who it was, they have hopefully learned their lesson about trying to kill you,” Eames says, watching Arthur’s Adam’s apple as he takes a sip from his beer.

“They didn’t even come close,” Arthur says, sounding vicious and proud. And Eames loves the Arthur he’s seen after jobs, the Arthur he talks with on the phone, the one who’s quick to tease and even quicker to laugh -- he loves that Arthur a lot. But something about Arthur’s precise chaos, about his ferocity, makes Eames love him even more.

“Why did you come back, anyways?” Arthur asks after a few moments, taking a sip from his beer.

“I thought I said.” Eames puts his beer down on a nearby table. “Someone has to keep you from working yourself away into nothing. It’s bound to happen someday soon if you don’t have a generous soul like me to watch over.” Eames expects Arthur to laugh like he always does, tell Eames he’s just being an obnoxious ass, and walk back over to his desk. But he doesn’t. He steps closer.

Arthur never moved very far away from Eames after he dropped his knife, so all it takes are two steps for Arthur to enter Eames’s personal space once more.

“Mmm,” he says, and Eames’s eyes flit, unwillingly, down to Arthur’s lips. He’s hoping he knows what’s about to happen, but one can never tell with Arthur; Eames half expects the knife to be back at his throat any moment.

Arthur cups the hand that’s not holding his beer around Eames’s jaw lightly, so lightly. The only sound in the room is the sound of them breathing. “Eames,” Arthur says, softly, like he’s asking for something. “Eames, can I --”

Eames doesn’t let Arthur finish his question, and meets Arthur halfway.

It’s everything and nothing like what Eames had imagined kissing Arthur would be like. Arthur’s lips are drier than they appear, and he’s kissing the way he might shoot a gun, clean and efficient. It doesn’t matter, though, because the urgency with which his lips are moving against Eames’s own is more than enough to prove to Eames that Arthur is definitely as into it as he is. They both taste like cheap, dollar store, beer, and it’s sloppy, and neither of them know what the other likes. Eames has to gentle Arthur’s kiss a little in order to keep up. Eames loves every second of it. He brings his hands up around Arthur’s back, and Arthur shudders into him, gasping. Eames takes advantage of his open mouth and lets his tongue meet Arthur’s, who seems very keen on reciprocating.

They break apart after only a minute or two, and Eames can’t take his eyes off of the flush that’s growing on Arthur’s face.

“I can’t believe you kissed me in a warehouse where there are three rotting corpses within twenty feet of us,” Eames says, trying to act disgusted, but he’s so full of shit. He would kiss Arthur waist deep in sludge, probably, if Arthur asked him to.

 What?” Arthur says, still close, so close. “You don’t kiss people with dead bodies surrounding you all the time? And to think I thought you were adventurous.”

Eames gives a short laugh, and takes the beer out of Arthur’s hands. “Hey,” Arthur protests, rather weakly, and Eames goes back for more.

(Nothing really changes after that. He and Arthur kiss a lot, sleep in the same bed sometimes, but besides that, it’s business as usual. Arthur doesn’t push for anything past kissing and some exploratory touches, and for that Eames is intensely grateful. Arthur seems to understand without asking that Eames may not ever be ready for anything more than that, and if he is, it’s not going to be anytime soon. And somehow, Arthur doesn’t care. He just lies in bed with Eames, his arm thrown over Eames’s middle as they talk, smiling occasionally when Eames says something amusing. That, certainly, hasn’t changed one bit; Arthur’s smile is just as devastating as the first time Eames saw it, and he has the same thought now that he did so many years ago: _I am so, so fucked._ )

 

_5\. the sacred geometry of chance_

Eames joins the military straight out of high school.

Despite the fact that Eames hasn’t seen Harley since his parents realized what was happening, Harley is still a fear that resides bone deep inside of Eames. Harley’s parents couldn’t do anything to him, not really, considering that he was twenty-five when it all came to light, so, as far as Eames knows, he and his wife are still living together happily. Their families haven’t talked since it happened, though, so Eames can’t know for sure.

He hasn’t tried to see Eames since then, and Eames knows he’s probably being irrational about the whole thing, but he doesn’t think he would ever feel safe going to university anywhere in England, somewhere so easily accessible, somewhere where Harley could find him. But he doesn’t want to make his parents pay for an American education, and, beyond that, he doesn’t want to be separated from them by an entire ocean. When it comes down to it, military is the only option that makes sense.

Eames kind of hates the army, if he’s being honest. He hates the strictness, the straight lines, the insistence that there’s only one way to do something, but he goes through training and he puts every fiber in his being into it. Concentrating on training leaves room for little else to enter his thoughts, lets the images that followed him for years die out into a soft background buzz.  

He makes Lance Corporal within a year, and he’s on track to become one of the youngest sergeants in the academy history when his Captain approaches him about joining a top secret side project that the military is experimenting with. He feels something like pride curl in his gut, and he’s happy, almost, or at least close to it. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t love it -- what matters is that he’s good at it, and that other people think so, too.

Dreamshare gives Eames an outlet for flexibility, for thinking in a way that’s not always straight and narrow, and he loves the control and the power he feels over the dreamscape, loves that he can change it into anything he wants it to be, can build entire city blocks with a single thought. He spends more time under than is probably healthy those first few weeks, but none of his superiors make any comment about it, so he doesn’t stop.

He discovers forging on accident. He’s under with one other officer, a relatively friendly Corporal called Santos. They’ve finished what they were tasked to do, but neither one of them feels very much like shooting themselves out of the dreamscape, so they’re just killing time, shooting the shit and gossiping about the other officers on the project.

“Major Johanssen is such a buzzkill,” Santos says with a role of his eyes, taking a drag from the cigarette he created a minute or two ago and blowing the smoke into the air. Eames tries not to find it so damn attractive. He knows what could happen to him if the other officers knew.

Eames just snorts, and adopts his best haughty voice. “My name is Calum Johanssen, and I’ve got a stick so far up my arse that it would take years to find, but if you drop titles around me, I’ll make you look.”

Eames starts to get concerned when Santos doesn’t respond. “What?” he asks, taking in Santos’s shocked expression.

“You,” Santos starts, then shakes his head. Eames notices that his cigarette has fallen from his fingers and is resting on the ground beneath their feet. “You looked just like him.”

The kick comes before Santos can elaborate.

Santos reports what happened to their superiors, causing Major Johanssen himself comes to see “what the fuss is all about.” When Eames successfully imitates the Major, down to tone of voice and absentminded mannerisms, the real Major shoots him in the head and tells him not to tell anyone else of this discovery.

It’s only upon waking up from a five minute session with the PASIV a couple days later that Eames thinks to be concerned. As he wakes up, he realizes that someone else is in the neighboring room, and they’ve left the door open. He can overhear the Major speaking about interrogation tactics that a skill such as Eames’s could lead to, so he sits up, stays as silent as possible.

“Think about it, sir,” he hears the Major say excitedly -- _excitedly_. “If we can train others to be as adaptable as Corporal Eames Lawrence is, we wouldn’t even have to try that hard at all. All it would take was one of them pretending to be a prisoner’s loved one, and we could show them an endless loop of them being tortured. Imagine how easily we’d get information!”

“It does hold a certain appeal,” he hears another voice -- General Schwartz, he thinks -- say. “A lot cleaner, too. We would have to ensure that no one else knew that such a thing was possible for it to work, though. If word gets out, we’ll have a hard time pulling it off. Who else knows besides us?”

“Just Corporal Lawrence and Corporal Santos, sir,” the Major says, and Eames feels sick to his stomach.

“Very well,” the General says. “Is Corporal Lawrence still here?”

“Yes, sir,” Major Johanssen says. “I could retrieve him if you’d like, sir.”

“Please do.”

Eames hears the Major approach, and makes a show of just having woken up as he approaches the door.

“Major Johanssen, sir?” Eames inquires.

"General Schwartz would like to see you, Corporal,” the Major says, his voice tight.

“Yes, sir,” Eames says, taking the IV out of his wrist. He purposefully doesn’t pack up the PASIV. Major Johanssen leads him to the adjacent room, and Eames stands across from General Schwartz, anger coiling deep in his stomach.

“At ease, Corporal. You may sit,” General Schwartz says, then dismisses Major Johanssen.

Eames sits down and waits for General Schwartz to start the conversation.

“It would seem that you have a very… particular talent regarding our dreamshare experiment, Corporal Lawrence,” the General says.

“Yes, sir,” Eames agrees, wondering where this going to go, if General Schwartz is going to tell him everything he overheard, or leave it vague.

Eames gets his answer pretty quickly. “Major Johanssen and I were discussing possible benefits of your abilities, your, uh…” the General trails off.

“I call it forging, sir,” Eames supplies. “Because it’s as if you’re making a perfect copy of someone else.”

“What an interesting name,” the General comments, and Eames doesn’t think he’s imagining the disdain he hears in his voice. “Regardless of what you call it, I would like you moved into a more private training schedule in order to further advance your skills, starting tomorrow morning. You will work exclusively with me or Major Johanssen. Do you understand, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.”

The General stands up, and Eames stands with him. “Oh, Corporal Lawrence?” the General says. “I expect that no one besides the three of us and Corporal Santos will hear about this particular skill of yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed, Corporal,” General Schwartz says, and begins to leave the room.

“General Schwartz, sir,” Eames says, causing the General to turn around.

“Yes, Corporal?”

“I didn’t have time to properly shut down the PASIV device before coming to speak with you, sir. Permission to return and properly shut down the PASIV?”

“Permission granted, Corporal,” General Schwartz says, then exits the room. Eames just stands there for a few seconds, trying not to punch the wall. It’ll only bring General Schwartz back into the room, and that’s the last thing he wants. So Eames stands there, and breathes, and then moves with an efficiency he didn’t even know himself capable of, packing up the PASIV up and putting it in his duffle bag before running out of the room. He knows he’s being stupid, knows that there’s a good 80% chance of this all going down in flames, but the last time he just let something happen to him -- the last time he let someone _use_ him it led to Harley, to the nightmares that Eames has only recently gotten rid of. He's not going to let that happen again.

Even if he does get caught trying to escape, at least he’ll know he tried. He goes out a side door, one that’s guarded by a Lieutenant that has taken to Eames and rarely performs the necessary checks on him. Eames only hopes this is one of those times.

It is. Eames feels a twinge of guilt as the Lieutenant wishes him a good night, but he keeps going, only stopping briefly at his dorm in order to grab his wallet from under his pillow. He makes it off campus with less effort than he expected, and books it to the nearest bus stop. He figures he’ll have until tomorrow morning before anyone realizes, but just in case, he takes the bus straight to the nearest airport and buys a ticket to Brazil with his credit card, then tears it up and takes the next bus to London. He pays out of pocket for a train to France.

It’s almost 2am when he gets to France. He gets off the train and allows himself a moment of laughter at the absurdity of what he’s doing. He almost doesn’t remember how he got here, under a French sky with a stolen piece of military technology in his hands. He feels like the type of person he always wanted to be.

He withdraws as much money as he can from his account, and pays for a train ride to Turkey. For the day and a half it takes to travel, Eames is more on edge than he can remember being in ages. When he crosses into Istanbul, he feels a weight fall off his shoulders. He remembers the name of a Somnacin producer, based in Istanbul, and goes there first. He’ll figure out the rest from there, but no matter what happens, Eames promises himself that he’s going to do it on his own terms.

(Entering the illegal side of dreamshare was even easier than Eames expected. Within three months, he’s got two new alias and has already learned the ins and outs of extraction. He makes sure to tell any and every extractor he meets with about forgery, and tells them to spread the information around. At first, he’s thought of as the best forger in the business because he’s the only one. Later on, though, when there are a plethora of other forgers in the business and Eames is far from unique, his reputation remains because he _is_ the best. For the first time, Eames feels like he’s the one in charge of his own life.)

 

**1\. the crushes of heaven for a sinner released**

In the end, the thing he has with Arthur is incredibly simple. When they land in LAX after inception (Inception! They just successfully performed _inception_!), Arthur indicates his luggage carousel, smiling when Eames throws his bag on top of Arthur’s.

“Where are we going, darling?” Eames asks, but only after catching Arthur’s mouth, briefly.

Arthur smiles, his eyes warm and glinting. “You’ll see,” he says, and Eames would protest, but Arthur kisses him again, and Eames would be an idiot to stop that.

Eames is disgruntled upon discovering that wherever they’re going is another plane ride away, and he makes no secret of this. Arthur, the bastard, just laughs at him.

“It’s not a long one, I promise,” Arthur says. “Only two and a half hours.”

“That’s two and a half hours too long if you ask me,” Eames mumbles. Arthur laughs again and boards the plane ahead of him, confident that Eames will follow. Eames does.

He spends pretty much the entire flight sleeping, real, natural sleeping. He rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and doesn’t even try to think of possibilities as to where they’re going. He’s done enough thinking for an entire lifetime just on their last job, thank you very much.

“Hey, Eames,” he hears, and he blinks his eyes, bleary. “We’re going to land soon.”

Sure enough, it’s only a few minutes more before they begin to descend. Eames peers over Arthur’s body and looks out the window. “Are we in… Seattle?”

Arthur smiles, and Eames knows he got it right. “You grew up here, didn’t you?” Eames asks, remembering the background information he had looked up about Arthur before their first job together.

“I did,” Arthur confirms. Eames feels a smile spread across his face.

“You’re such a sap,” he says, nudging Arthur in the shoulder.

“Am not,” Arthur says, and leans in then to kiss Eames, a quick thing that leaves Eames wanting.

“You’re not really helping out your case here,” Eames murmurs, and then gets up and pulls his luggage down from the carry-on hatch.

Arthur has rented them a car, a sleek red thing with two sunroofs and surround sound, and they drive faster than the speed limit as they head to their hotel. “You know,” Arthur says, smirking over at Eames from the passenger seat. “We’re not actually being chased for once. You could actually obey speed limit.”

“Mmm, I could,” Eames agrees. “But where’s the fun in that?”

And Arthur laughs and laughs and laughs, and Eames narrowly avoids rear-ending the car in front of them. Arthur can be distracting like that, sometimes.

They get to their hotel in no time at all, and Eames is delighted to find that Arthur has booked them the honeymoon suite.

“Sap,” Eames says again, smiling into Arthur’s neck. Arthur doesn’t say anything, but Eames can feel his grin.

Arthur slips his hand into Eames’s while they’re in the elevator, and doesn’t drop it until Eames pulls away upon entering the room. He puts a hand over his heart and flutters his eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur!” Eames exclaims, and he knows without looking that Arthur is rolling his eyes at him. “Only one bed? Do you mean to steal my virtue?”

Arthur smiles at him. Even from across the room, it’s the warmest thing Eames has ever felt. “Only if you want me to,” Arthur says, hands in his pocket, casual as you like.

The room seems to pause for a second as both of them realize what Arthur has just said. “I mean,” Arthur says, blushing. “Fuck. I just meant -- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --” He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his hair.

Eames raises an eyebrow and indicates the couch on one side of the suite. Arthur sits down, and Eames follows, but only after pulling two of the needlessly expensive water bottles out of the fridge. The liquor is tempting, but if this is the conversation Eames thinks it is, he wants both of them to be sober.

When they’re both seated on the couch, thighs touching, Arthur tries to speak again, pointedly gazing at the ground. “I --”

Eames cuts him off. “I want you to,” he says, and watches Arthur’s head snap up. “I do, Arthur. I just -- I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that. I wish I could give you a guarantee that all it would take is a few tries and everything would slot together in my brain but. I can’t give you anymore than this. I’m sorry.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, and he sounds stricken. “Jesus Christ, Eames, you don’t have to apologize. That you even want to try is… that’s enough for me. Sex is great, amazing, even, but… you’re more important to me than sex, Eames.”

Eames leans against Arthur, hoping that all of the gratitude he feels is being conveyed somehow. “I still want to try, though. I can’t just sit back and let him win. And if he does win, I’m not going down without a fight.” Eames feels a surge of something akin to vindication running through him.

Arthur is silent for a minute, and Eames is more nervous than he’d care to admit. “You know,” Arthur finally says, his arm curling around Eames’s shoulder. “I almost killed him, once.”

It takes Eames a second to catch up. When he does, he straightens up immediately. “What?”

“It was about a month or two after the Miller job, after… you know. I looked him up, figured out where he was living, flew there. I tailed him for a few days, memorized his routine, and God, Eames, I hated him so much, for what he did to you, that he was able to go about his life as if he hadn’t done anything.” Arthur takes a deep breath here, and Eames waits it out, even despite his shock. Arthur is looking straight ahead, an intense expression on his face. “I had everything planned out, down to the second. I was going to kill him, make him pay for what he did. But…” Arthur trails off.

“But?” Eames prompts after a few moments. He can feel Arthur shaking.

“I couldn’t do it. Not because he didn’t deserve it, because he does -- he deserves so much worse than the clean shot to the head I was going to give him. But… what would my killing him accomplish? His death wouldn’t change anything he did to you. It wouldn’t solve anything. And,” Arthur says, and Eames knows Arthur’s getting to the crux of whatever he wants to say. “Most importantly, it wasn’t my battle to fight. It was yours, and you were already winning. You didn’t need him dead to prove that.”

Eames is silent for a few moments, then pulls Arthur’s mouth to his, kissing him with an urgency he didn’t even know he possessed. He’s smiling when Arthur pulls back. “Arthur,” he says, his fingers gripping Arthur’s wrist. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

And Arthur laughs, and Eames can feel the tension in his body melt away. “I can’t believe aborted murder is the nicest thing I’ve done for you,” he says, looking at Eames. “I’ll have to try harder next time. Actually murder someone for you.”

“You’re so romantic,” Eames says, rolling his eyes.

“Only the best for you,” Arthur says, smiling. “Completed murders are all that will suffice.”

“Or,” Eames says, eyes glinting. “Or, you could just get in bed with me right now. I’m exhausted.”

“What you’ve requested is an even more difficult task, but I am prepared to do it,” Arthur says, trying and failing to imitate the voice Eames had used earlier. Eames threads their fingers together and stands up, making sure Arthur sees as he rolls his eyes.

Five minutes later, when they’re both tucked in underneath the covers, Eames pulls Arthur closer. “Hey, Arthur,” he says, fingers tracing a line up and down Arthur’s arm. Arthur’s already on the brink of sleep, Eames can tell.

“Hmm?” Arthur says, looking up at Eames, resting one of his hands on Eames’s chest.

“I love you,” Eames says, smiling.

Arthur pauses, then says, “That it? ‘Cuz I love you, too. But you knew that.”

“Yeah,” Eames says, watching Arthur’s eyelids flutter closed. “I guess I did.”

(They spend two weeks in Seattle. Arthur shows him all the overcrowded touristy sites he can think of, indulging Eames’s love of anything kitschy. They go to the Pike Place Market and the Space Needle and the first Starbucks. They go to the zoo and they take three rides on the ferris wheel at the end of one of the piers. Arthur wears t-shirts and jeans, which are somehow even more attractive than his suits, and Eames makes sure that Arthur knows this by kissing him everywhere he can. Eames loves tucking his fingers into Arthur’s belt loops, loves putting on his brightest shirts every morning just to see Arthur wrinkle his nose at him when he sees it.

Their last night in Seattle, they take a ferry to Bainbridge Island for dinner. It’s a huge ship, and Arthur and Eames are standing at the edge of the dock with around two hundred other people as they wait for it to dock. Eames is pretending to watch the ferry pull in but is really watching Arthur, who is not so subtly looking at Eames. Out of the corner of his eye, Eames can see the ferry begin its approach, ever so slowly, and glances toward Arthur. His smile, Eames thinks dazedly as he leans in to kiss him, is just like a ferry docking -- like it’s asymptotic, like it won’t ever happen, but then, all of a sudden...

It does.)

 

 


End file.
